


Bad Blood

by dragonflybeach



Series: The Missing Moments [63]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Gen, Post-Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Pre-Series, Show level violence, Teenchesters, graphic depiction of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflybeach/pseuds/dragonflybeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester had Type A blood. Mary Winchester had Type A blood. So of course, both of their children have it as well, right? John finds out they don't when a hunt goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

_October 1997_   
_Monroe, Iowa_

At the sound of the gunshot, accompanied by an inhuman scream, Sam tossed his book through the open window of the car and looked expectantly toward the building.

Ding dong the witch is dead, ghoul, whatever, but if Dad comes back and catches him reading when he's supposed to be on lookout, they'll have to invent a new word that is worse than furious.

Then his father shouted, the words garbled and distorted by layers of crumbling concrete and rusted steel.

Sam listened, waited, for the answering shout from Dean, but instead heard a second gunshot.

A gunshot that made a slighter longer sound, in a deeper timbre, with a different echo pattern.

_A different gun._

Sam snatched his- _Dad's_ -chrome pistol from the hood of the car and had crossed the distance between the car and the door of the abandoned factory before his brain caught up with his feet. He froze, looking back toward the car where he was supposed to be waiting, back toward the shadowed entryway, his mind racing.

The fact that Dad and Dean had both discharged their weapons was so not good.

The fact that there had been no answering shout from Dean, no confirmation that he was okay, still hadn't been, was even worse.

Sam backed toward the car, checked the knife strapped to the inside of his left arm, and knelt by the rear tire, his gun trained on the door.

He told himself that Dean hadn't had to answer, that he and Dad had been able to see each other, Dean had just nodded or given a thumbs up or something, while a nagging little voice argued that it was more likely that one or both or his family was hurt or worse and the thing was now coming for Sam.

"They're fine," he whispered aloud, willing it to be true.

Ghouls were the tree sloths of the supernatural world - slow moving, lazy, and not very bright. The odds of one ghoul getting the jump on both his father and Dean was astronomical.

Unless it wasn't just one.

Sam began reciting the prayer on the plaque above Pastor Jim's fireplace.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven ... "

For probably the only time in Sam Winchester's life, it worked, because his father and Dean appeared in the doorway at that moment.

Sam's thoughts fluttered back to his original assessment.

This was very, very bad.

Dean wasn't walking as much as Dad was half carrying, half dragging him. Both of them were covered in blood. Dean was panting, so at least both of them were still alive.

For now.

"Sam, throw a blanket on the back seat and grab some clean towels! I've got him!" Dad barked, startling Sam into realizing he had lowered his gun and ran to meet them.

Sam snapped his arm, sliding the silver bladed knife into the palm of his hand and quickly swiping it across his father's forearm.

"Motherfu-! No, wait. That was good. That was good Sammy." Dad raised a bloody hand and patted Sam's cheek. "You can't be too careful. It's me. The ghoul's dead. We got it. Now get the blankets and towels like I asked you."

"Dean ... " Sam said, reaching for his brother.

"I've got him, Sam, but I need to lay him down and check his wound. Do what I fucking _told_ you to do!" Dad shouted.

Sam ran to the trunk and grabbed all three towels and both blankets. He shoved one as far as he could across the back seat of the car, ducking inside to pull it across and climbing out the other door.

"Sam! Stay there, and help me get him laid out on the seat!" Dad ordered.

He put Dean down as gently as possible.

"Grab his arms and pull him toward you." He instructed, unsheathing the knife on his belt.

Dean had been fading into unconsciousness, but screamed in pain and tried to curl up when Sam pulled on him.

"Dean! Hold still!" Dad said, cutting away the tattered remains of Dean's shirt and slicing through his belt. "Sam, grab me whatever holy water we have and the bottle of bourbon under the front seat!"

Sam handed the liquor bottle over the seat, and then went to the trunk for holy water. By the time he had returned, Dad had apparently poured most of the booze on the wound, as Dean was screeching and trying to pull his knees up.

"Dean! Stop!" Dad shouted. "I've got to see it! Hold his shoulders down!" He gestured at Sam, tossing him the bigger piece of what was left of Dean's belt. "Put that between his teeth so he can bite down on it. And if he starts having a seizure, make sure it stays there."

Sam nodded, willing his brain to shut off, putting the blood smeared leather in Dean's mouth, trying to speak softly and encouragingly, for his own sake as well as Dean's.

Once Dean settled a little, Sam started the prayer again but in his head this time.

Dad soaked the cleanest towel with holy water and began to gently wipe away blood from Dean's side. The ragged hole just above his hipbone dribbled out more blood as fast as Dad could wipe it away.

"Roll up on your side." Dad said, almost in a normal tone of voice.

Sam helped Dean turn slowly toward the back of the seat, one of Dean's hands fisted in the blanket, and the other on Sam's sleeve, as he panted and grunted from pain and exertion.

John patted gently at a second wound on Dean's back before placing the towel against the wound and helping Sam lay Dean back down.

"The bullet went through." Dad began, looking at Sam briefly before trying to meet Dean's eyes. "That's good. Dean, look at me. Good. The wound is low enough that we don't have to worry about it hitting your liver. It's far enough out to the side that it probably didn't hit any organs. You're okay. Sam, get in here and hold this on his side. Try to get the bleeding under control until I can get us to a motel or something. There's not enough room in here to stitch him up. Dean, starting tomorrow, you're going to take all the antibiotics we've got, okay?"

Sam squeezed into the back floorboard, his hand replacing Dad's on the towel held on Dean's side. Dad backed out of other door, got something from the trunk, and went back into the building. He returned five minutes later and drove them to the next town as the first wisps of smoke began to roll from the broken windows of the old factory.

"What happened?" Sam asked softly, pulling the other blanket up over Dean.

Dad sighed. "We thought we had the ghoul cornered, but apparently there was a way out of the room we thought we had it trapped in. It came up behind us and grabbed Dean. His gun went off in the struggle. The bullet richocheted off the floor and Dean got hit. As soon as I could get a clean shot, I blew its brains out."

Dad pulled into a seedy truckstop, instructed the boys to stay put, and got something from the trunk before going into the bathroom. When he returned, he was clean and dressed in clothes that weren't bloody. He returned his duffle to the trunk and got a plastic tarp to cover the seat, so he didn't get blood on his clean clothes.

The drove on to the next town, where Dad stopped and got a room for the night. It took both of them to get Dean into the room. After getting Dean onto the nearest bed, Dad tossed the duffles into a corner, told Sam to salt the doors and windows, then clean as much blood as he could off Dean's wound, and left.

He returned twenty minutes later, first aid kit tucked under his arm, two bottles of peroxide in one hand, and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the other.

Dad helped Dean sit up, and made him drink two glasses of the whiskey. Dad took several shots straight from the bottle himself, and then opened the the first aid kit. He poured a little of the peroxide on the needle, and then poured about half the bottle into Dean's wound, holding a towel against his side to absorb some of the overflow.

Dean hissed but did his best not to shout, his hands clenching in the bedspread beneath him. Sam smoothed his brother's hair away from his face and began whispering the prayer again under his breath.

Finally satisfied that the wound was clean enough, Dad began the sutures.

Dean hissed and his muscles contracted.

"Hold still, son." Dad said, taking another swig of whiskey.

"Dean, repeat after me." Sam told him. "Sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt."

"Seriously?" Dean snapped. "I got shot, I'm getting sewn up with no drugs, and you're trying to give me a Latin lesson?"

"It was worth a shot." Sam shrugged. "No pun intended."

"Just shut up and let me go back to my happy place on the Baywatch beach." Dean grumbled.

Dad almost smiled.

"Dean, here sit up and drink a little more." Dad said, gesturing for Sam to help prop Dean up. "I'm gonna have to go deeper than I thought with these stitches, and it's gonna hurt like a bitch."

Dean drank another glass of whiskey and Dad cleaned the skin around the wound a little more.

By the time he started stitching again, the wound had started bleeding again, so he had to stop frequently to clean it up enough to be able to continue. After the wound on Dean's front was done, Dad and Sam rolled him over so Dad could sew the exit wound.

Once both wounds were closed, Dad poured the rest of the peroxide over them, patted the surrounding skin dry, and taped thick gauze pads in place. Dean's eyelids, which had been drooping, closed completely.

Dad got up and went to the sink to wash his hands.

"How's his pulse, Sammy?" he called over his shoulder.

Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist and ticked off the seconds with the dingy clock between the beds.

"It's 132." Sam answered, surprised, frantically scanning his mind for symptoms of shock.

"Does he feel cool?" Dad asked, walking back toward the bed, still wiping his hands on the towel.

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding, frowning.

Dad tossed the towel on the end of the bed and began unlacing Dean's boots.

"Get me a flashlight."

Sam handed him the light, which Dad used to look at Dean's feet. "Do they look blue to you?"

Sam peered closely. "Kinda?" he shrugged, the cold feeling in his stomach spreading outward.

"He's lost a lot of blood." Dad sighed, looking up at Dean's face, where dark smudges had formed under his eyes, emphasizing the paleness of the rest of his face.

"Should we take him to the hospital?" Sam asked softly.

Dad snorted. "Gunshot wounds are required to be reported to the police. You know that."

"But you could say it was something else." Sam suggested. "Maybe an animal bite."

"An animal bite that makes a jagged round hole that goes all the way through." Dad shook his head. "And what kind of _animal_ are you going to tell them it was, Sammy?"

"It's _Sam."_ he grumbled. "I dunno. We just need to do something for him."

Dad looked at Sam for a long moment. "We could give him some of your blood."

"Don't you have to go to a hospital for that?" Sam asked, trying to control the panic that was rapidly threatening to take over.

"Nah." Dad shook his head. "Military medics do it in the field all the time."

"Have you ever done it?" Sam pressed.

"No, but I've seen it done. It's easy enough." Dad said.

"You know they make people go to school for being a paramedic and issue licenses and all, right?" Sam continued.

"Sam, it's just a matter of running an IV line between the two of you. That, I've done. I started an IV line on another hunter once." Dad shook his head.

"Don't you think it would be better to give him your blood?" Sam forcing himself to keep his voice calm.

"I can't start an IV on myself." Dad pointed out.

"I could help?" Sam offered.

"I didn't realize you were that much of a baby." Dad snapped. "That you were too afraid of needles to help your brother."

"I'm not!" Sam drew up every inch of his height, but still barely reached John's shoulder. "I just think there's something wrong wtih me. There's always been something wrong with me."

"We do not have time for your teen angst bullshit!" Dad threw up his hands. "Dean has lost a lot of blood. Unless we get some back in him, we're going to be stuck here for at least a week, feeding him rare steak and green leafy vegetables trying to build his blood back up. Do you want to spend a week in a motel room with a guy who's gonna have to eat a whole head of cabbage? He's your brother, Sam. He would do it for you."

Dad always knew exactly which buttons to press. "I know he would, but ... "

"Do you want your brother to get better or not?" John challenged.

Sam sighed, knowing that Dad didn't understand, would never understand the fact that Sam had always known, deep in his heart, that he wasn't pure. All Sam could do was hope that whatever it was wouldn't hurt Dean, after all the time they'd spent together, the way they had eaten and drank after each other, bled on each other before, maybe Dean was infected with it too. He took off his flannel shirt, and laid on the bed beside Dean. John found enough equipment that he said could work in the first aid kit. He started an IV line in Sam's arm first, only sticking him twice before he got into a vein. He then put a syringe without a needle to the other end of the rubber tubing, drawing air out until blood dripped out of the end of the line onto the sheets Sam had determined were probably headed for a dumpster bonfire in the morning anyway.

Dad then attached an IV needle to the other end and managed to hit Dean's vein on the first try.

"Open and close your fist a few times. Wiggle your wrist around. Get the blood moving. Just don't pull the needle out." Dad instructed, taking another sip of the whiskey.

He cut pieces of first aid tape and secured the IV lines to both boys' arms.

Sam was surprised that it didn't hurt, really, once the needle was in. He kept opening and closing his hand, watching for the color to return to Dean's pale face.

The reaction he got, however, wasn't what any of them expected.

Dean, who had pretty much been asleep, suddenly surged to a sitting position and tried to pull the needle out of his arm.

"Dean!" Dad barked. " _Stop_! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Get it out!" Dean shouted. "It hurts! Get it _out_!"

"Dean, stop!" Dad ordered, pushing Dean gently back down and pinning his arms to the bed. "You're going to pull your stitches out!"

"It hurts!" Dean repeated.

"You got shot, son! Of course it's going to hurt!"

"No!" Dean was panting, his skin suddenly glazed with sweat. "My arm! My _arm_ hurts worse than my side!"

"It's just a needle prick, Dean." Dad said, obviously trying to calm both of them down. "It's fine. We're giving you a little of Sammy's blood because you lost a lot."

"No!" Dean shook his head frantically. "You've got to stop! Something bad is happening! I can feel it already!"

Dad drew back and looked at Dean. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know!" Dean took advantage of being released to pull at the needle again. "I feel bad all over. It's not like being shot. But I know it's not good and I've gotta stop it."

Dad clamped his hand over where the IV went into Dean's arm. "Tell me what you mean about something bad is going to happen."

"I don't know!" Dean frantically struggled to move his father's hand with his good arm. "Just get it out!"

Dean was shaking, almost sobbing, making little hurt noises.

"Dad?" Sam said, watching his brother in horror. "Maybe there's something wrong with my blood. I told you there was something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with Sam's blood!" Dad shouted.

Dean suddenly tried to pull away from Dad, but Dad held him tighter. Dean leaned over as far as he could, and retched.

Nothing really came up, just a little yellowish liquid, but it got Dad's attention, because Dean almost never threw up. That's was Sam's thing. Sam always threw up when he was sick. Dean only threw up when he was hungover or had food poisoning.

"Dean?" Dad asked, not angry this time, but apparently very concerned.

"Please?" Dean wheezed.

"Okay, I'm taking it out." Dad reached over and carefully took the needle from Dean's arm. "Now breathe, son. Slow, deep breaths."

"I can't," Dean gasped. "I can't get enough air."

His hand came up to his chest.

"Chest hurt?" Dad asked.

Dean nodded.

Dad rattled off a list of curses strong enough to peel the wallpaper. He shoved himself off the bed and began dialing his phone.

Sam carefully pulled the needle from his own arm, and leaned over to look at Dean.

Dean laid back, his eyes closed, his breathing fast and shallow.

"Who are you calling?" Sam asked.

"Caleb." Dad answered shortly, pressing the button for speaker phone. "He used to be an Army medic."

Caleb didn't answer, so Dad dialed him again, tossing the phone on the bedside table as he checked Dean's pulse and breathing.

The call connected that time, but Caleb didn't lead with any form of polite greeting.

"Whatever you want, Winchester, the answer is _no."_

"Caleb!" Dad's voice was almost a whine. _"Please_ don't hang up!"

Sam's head snapped around to look at him.

There was a moment of silence, and Caleb finally said "What is it?"

"Dean's hurt. Is shortness of breath a symptom of compartment syndrome?" Dad said in the general direction of the phone.

"Wait. What?" Caleb asked. "What's going on?"

"It's Dean." Dad said, continuing to check Dean over, looking into his eyes and feeling the length of his arm. "He got shot in the side but he's saying his arm hurts worse than his side. He's really short of breath. Is that compartment syndrome?"

"What kind of injury does he have to his arm?" Caleb's tone changed, all professional.

"None." Dad shook his head, even though Caleb couldn't see him. "He got shot in the side. I don't think the bullet hit any organs. I stitched him up. But he says his arm where I was giving him an IV hurts worse than his side. I know disproportionate pain is a symptom of compartment syndrome, but is shortness of breath?"

"Compartment syndrome affects the body part that's injured." Caleb gave an aggrieved sigh. "If you get shot in the side, you're not going to get compartment syndrome in your arm. Holy _shit_ do you and Bobby Singer have just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous. What kind of IV were you giving him? Penicillin? It's probably an allergic reaction."

"No, no meds." Dad pulled Dean's sleeve up, looking carefully at his arm. "I was giving him a blood transfusion. He lost a lot of blood."

"Where'd you get a bag of blood?" Caleb asked. "How old is it?"

"No, not a bag." Dad sighed. "From Sam. I set up a direct line between them and was transfusing him with Sam's blood.

"Has _Sam_ taken any medication that Dean might be having a reaction to?" Caleb asked.

"No. Nothing. Sam doesn't take any medicine. Dean. Open your eyes, Dean. Stay with us."

"Well here's a silly question." Caleb said. "Are you sure they have the same blood type?"

"Of course they do. Mary had type A and I have type A." Dad answered.

"But have you ever had the boys tested?" Caleb persisted. "Because genes are crazy things. People can throw back to some long dead relative. Like, my sister and her husband both have brown eyes. They have two brown eyed kids and one blue eyed one, because the middle one has his grandma's eyes. You know what I'm saying? Maybe if one of your parents didn't have type A blood, one of your kids might not have it."

Dad rattled off the string of curses again. "I've never had the boys' blood types checked. I just assumed they would be the same as the two of us."

Sam thought of saying that even he knew better than that, but decided it wasn't the time.

"Tell me his symptoms. I mean, other than the hole in his side and blood loss." Caleb said.

"Short of breath. Rapid pulse. Skin cool to the touch but sweating. Chest pain. Severe pain at the site of the IV." Dad listed off.

"Did he tell you he felt like something was wrong but couldn't give you an exact symptom?" Caleb asked.

"Yes!" Dad breathed.

"That's something they told us to watch out for when giving one of our soldiers blood." Caleb sighed. "Modern science can't explain it, but they say that nearly everyone who is given the wrong type of blood knows that something is seriously wrong but can't tell you what. You've got to get him to the hospital, John."

"Tell me what to do for him, and I'll do it here." Dad insisted.

"John, you can't fix this. He needs professional medical care." Caleb sounded like he was trying to explain physics to a preschooler. "This is life threatening! You have ..."

Dad reached over and pressed the button to turn the speaker off. He scooped up the phone and held it to his head.

Sam sneaked a glance at Dean, who seemed to be losing consciousness again. 

"Caleb, he got shot!" Dad argued. "We can't just waltz into the ER and get another trans ..."

Dad trailed off, frowning at whatever Caleb said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will. Thanks Caleb."

Dad hung up the phone.

"Come on, Sam. Help me get him in the car." Dad sounded very tired.

Sam let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and clenched his hands to try to stop from shaking. "Dad, is Dean going to die?"

"No!" Dad answered forcefully. "No, Sam. He's gonna be fine. We're gonna get him to the hospital, and he's gonna be fine."

"Should we call an ambulance?" Sam suggested.

"No, we can just take him in the car." Dad grabbed his jacket and threw Sam's at him.

"But Dad, you don't know where it is and he can't breathe!" Sam cried.

Dad took a long look at Dean, and then picked up the phone. He called 911 and reported a teenage boy having trouble breathing.

The ambulance arrived in less than two minutes, with a fire truck right behind. The medics barely checked Dean's vitals before they had him loaded on a stretcher. Dad just said that Dean had a wound on his side and Dad was concerned about blood loss, so Dad had tried to give him a transfusion.

The ambulance crew and firemen all looked at each other, but none of them said anything other than specifics about getting Dean loaded and transported.

"Can I ride with him?" Sam asked.

The two medics both looked at one of the firemen. The fireman patted Sam's shoulder. "Not this time, son. He's really sick. I'm going to ride in the back and help Rick with him, and there won't be any room for someone else."

Sam nodded, clenching his jaw to keep from crying in front of Dad, wondering if the fireman had just said he was afraid Dean would die on the trip.

"Come on, Sam," Dad said, his voice unusually hoarse. "We'll follow them to the hospital."

The ride only took six minutes, but not a word was exchanged in the car on the way. Dean was taken straight back, while Dad and Sam were directed to a nearly empty waiting room with a clipboard full of forms to fill out.

Sam wasn't the slightest bit surprised when the sheriff's deputy walked in a few minutes later, and apparently, neither was Dad.

"Mr. Winthrop?"

Dad stood and nodded in acknowledgement of his current alias.

Sam stepped between them, and allowed everything that had happened over the last few hours to overwhelm him at once.

He burst into tears.

"Please." he said to the officer. "Don't put my Dad in jail. He's all we've got, my mom died, and he was just trying to take care of us. We came here because he was supposed to have a job lined up but it didn't work out and he hasn't been able to find a job and we were running out of money and we were gonna hunt a deer because that much meat would last us a long time but we couldn't afford a hunting license and we don't have a crossbow and it's not rifle season so we were trying to be sneaky and then Dean accidentally got shot and my Dad was trying to fix it without getting us in trouble so he sewed up Dean's wounds and was trying to give him blood because he used to be a medic in the Marines but he didn't know my blood was bad because he was just trying to fix Dean because he loves us!"

The officer looked at Dad.

Sam sneaked a peek at Dad, who was looking at him wide eyed.

"Uh, I didn't know the Marines had their own medics." the cop said, looking at Dad with narrowed eyes. "I thought they used Navy hospital corpsmen."

"They do." Dad nodded. "I was technically in the Navy, but I was assigned to a Marine unit. Joined the Navy just to spend eight years in the Marines."

The policeman grinned. "Same thing happened to my brother in law. But he was only 2 years with the Jarheads." The smile faded. "I'm going to have to write this up. And I'll have run it by my captain. But I don't think there's been any criminal wrongdoing here." He looked at his watch. "Captain's probably home eating dinner by now. As long as you give me an address and phone number where you can be reached, I think this can wait until tomorrow."

Dad nodded, giving the man the name of the motel. "Thank you." he said sincerely.

The cop shook Dad's hand. "I hope your boy's okay. And that you find some work soon. Shame that so many men who served their country have so much trouble getting jobs."

Dad thanked him again as he left, and then herded Sam over to the plastic chairs facing the treatment area. He sat down beside Sam, ruffled his hair, and smiled sadly. He leaned in to whisper in Sam's ear.

"That was really good thinking, son, but if you make me have to claim to be a squid pecker checker again, you're gonna run wind sprints until you're twenty."

Sam smiled at Dad, and wished that he wasn't too old for a hug.

A nurse came out and pricked Sam's finger, telling him that they just wanted to check his blood type to be sure, but they pretty much already knew.

It was over an hour later that a nurse finally took them back to a consult room, where a doctor was waiting.

"Well, the crisis was a transfusion of mismatched blood types, of course. Dean," the man looked down at the chart in front of him. "has type O blood, and your younger son has type A. Dean's system didn't react well to the antigens in the transfused blood. If it had gone the other way, it wouldn't have been a problem. Type O blood can be given to anyone without a reaction."

"So what are you doing about it?" Sam asked. "Is Dean okay now? Can I go see him?"

Dad pinched him under the table to remind him to be quiet.

"We're giving him oxygen, IV fluids, and medicines to control allergic reactions, as well as giving him two pints of the correct blood type. His kidney function and liver function were also affected, so we're treating those symptoms as well. He's being admitted to the Intensive Care unit, but if everything goes well, we'll move him to a regular room in 48 hours, and then he can go home a couple days after that. We're also going to give him antibiotics and a tetanus shot for the gunshot wound. I removed the stitches you placed," he looked at Dad, who hung his head. "which were actually pretty good work, by the way. We're going to pack the wound with antibiotic dressing for at least 24 hours. If it looks good after that, we'll see about closing it back up. But those type of wounds need to heal from the inside out to prevent complications, so we'll sew it back up a little differently to promote proper healing. Any questions?"

"Can we see him?" Sam asked, knowing Dad wasn't going to be happy.

"Please?" Dad asked hoarsely.

Sam looked at him again, surprised to see Dad looking so tired and old.

The doctor nodded. "Just for a minute, tonight. You have to understand, he's sedated. He won't be awake, and he won't know you're there. But I know it will make you feel better to see him."

The doctor led them back to the ICU and buzzed the three of them in. He told Dad and Sam to wash their hands at the sink just inside the door. He then led them to a room, where Dean lay in the bed, nearly as pale as the sheets, with tubes and wires attached all over him. Rather than the thin tube across the upper lip Sam always saw on tv, a huge clear mask covered Dean's mouth and nose, secured with wide blue straps.

The doctor noticed Sam looking at it. "That's a CPAP mask. That type continuously blows fresh oxygen into his lungs, making it less effort for him to breathe."

Sam nodded, then leaned in, whispering "I'm sorry my bad blood made you sick."

Dad put one hand on Sam's shoulder, and one on Dean's exposed arm. "It wasn't your fault, Sam." Then so softly that Sam wasn't sure if he had imagined it, Dad whispered "I'm sorry Dean."

Sam knew he had more to be sorry for than Dad, that there was something besides type A in his blood that had made Dean sick. He just didn't know what it was.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So in s10e03, when Sam said "I got your blood type." I said to myself "They've learned this one the hard way." For narrative purposes, (and because the prop people apparently had a whoops) we're going to presume that John's blood type on his dogtags was wrong. It could happen, my uncle's blood type was wrong on his.


End file.
